


glow glow melt and flow

by foxxcub



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:44:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxcub/pseuds/foxxcub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur knows he’s being fussy. He also knows he’s too tired to focus on how his subconscious seems to think providing him with a mostly-naked, bed-hogging Eames is somehow conducive to him getting a decent night’s sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	glow glow melt and flow

_**Zurich** _

The hotel room is small and painted an unhappy gray to match the equally unhappy bed sheets. The lighting is terrible, dim and muted from a single lamp standing in the corner beside the tiny mini fridge. The flat screen television, glossy black and forty-two inches, is the only thing reminding Arthur that this is a five-star hotel and he’s paying a fortune to stay here.

He hasn’t been in this room in nearly a week. Arthur is not that broken up about this fact. But the untouched, depressing aluminum-colored bed also reminds him that he hasn’t really slept in a week, either; his desk chair at the warehouse has given him a few hours here and there, but nothing substantial. The job has gone terribly, _more_ than terribly, but at least it’s over. They got what they needed. He can sleep for real now.

But his body is still running on Job Time, spinning on all cylinders from adrenaline and stress, and after an hour of staring up at ceiling without so much as a yawn, Arthur swears under his breath and goes to the closet.

He hasn’t used the PASIV as a makeshift sleep aid in months, not since the weeks following the Fischer job; Arthur prides himself on being able to sleep on his own, a skill most people in his line of work fail to develop. But he knows a losing battle when he sees one, and unless he wants to glare at the ugly slate wallpaper for the rest of the night, he’ll deal with a few minutes of lucid dreaming.

He doesn’t, however, expect his brain to be so sleep-starved that it immediately puts him into another hotel room quite similar to his own—only the walls are painted a lovely soothing cornflower blue to match the bedding.

Arthur also doesn’t expect his brain to put a projection of Eames into his bed.

“Seriously?” he mutters to himself.

Eames is sprawled across the sheets, legs tangled in the comforter, clutching a pillow to his chest. He’s shirtless and his hair is tousled, cheeks covered in day-old shadow. He snuffles for a second before blinking up at Arthur.

“Mmm, there you are.” He groans deep in his throat as he rolls onto his side, taking a good portion of the blankets with him. “I was wondering what was keeping you.”

“I’m not—” Arthur sighs, ignoring the hot little surge that shimmers through him at the warm, sleep-rough tone of Eames’ voice. “That’s my bed.”

“Of course it is, love, so get in it.” Closing his eyes around a yawn, Eames splays his hand over the empty spot beside him. “You’re so fussy when you’re exhausted.”

Arthur knows he’s being fussy. He also knows he’s too tired to focus on how his subconscious seems to think providing him with a mostly-naked, bed-hogging Eames is somehow conducive to him getting a decent night’s sleep.

“Move the fuck over,” he mumbles, words trailing off into a jaw-breaking yawn as he shoves at Eames’ shoulder and climbs under the sheets, half-heartedly kicking at Eames’ ankles until the blankets are more or less evenly shared. Arthur takes a deep breath, lets it out through his nose, feels his body slowly relaxing into blessed, stress-free unconsciousness.

Just before the timer runs out, he opens his eyes to find he’s somehow, in the course of a few hours, curled himself around Eames, his chest flush against Eames’ back, hips tucked tightly around the curve of Eames’ ass. His lips skim lightly over the back of Eames’ neck, his hand draped along the smooth dip of his waist.

Arthur blinks in the dark and thinks, _Huh._

He wakes up, only to drowsily pull the IV from his wrist, tug a spare pillow into his arms, and drift easily back to sleep.

 

_**Melbourne** _

He’s not only shot on the job, he’s _pulverized_. A firing squad of projections aim semi-automatics at his head and let all hell loose, until Arthur is jerking awake to the sound of rapid gunfire echoing in his head.

“Well, that was quite spectacular,” Eames says in a groggy voice as he comes to in the chair beside Arthur, who goes straight to his med kit and downs four Excedrin dry.

It’s the worst test run he’s ever had, and that includes the two years dealing with Dom and his rogue subconscious.

“We can fix this,” Dom is saying as Arthur rubs at his temples in a futile attempt to will the migraine away. “There’s just some tweaking that needs to be done, and we’ll be golden.”

Arthur wants to remind him for the thousandth time that they don’t have enough data on the mark, a Mr. Harold Flanigan, who is officially retired CIA and unofficially working for the NSA. He’s too buried, too guarded in top-secret government cloak-and-dagger bullshit to get any real information.

“This is what happens when you decide to go after fucking spies, Dom, and you know it,” Arthur says. “We don’t need tweaks, we need _time_ and _more research_.”

“No, this’ll work, I know it will, the second level just needs another escape hatch...” Dom starts scribbling notes on the white board and Arthur wants to rip his tie off and strangle him with it.

Instead, he sighs heavily and says to a flustered Ariadne standing beside him, “You deal with him, I’m going back to the hotel.”

She raises an eyebrow. “To sleep? You really look like you could use it. Not to mention I’ve never seen you so close to murdering Cobb with your eyeballs before.”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m going to some more digging on Flanigan. I’ve got a source in Sydney I haven’t tapped yet, they might have more details on his level of training.” He shrugs on his jacket, ignoring her huff of disapproval.

Arthur is nearly out the door when he feels a hand brush his elbow and a deceptively calm voice say, “Do you really think that’s going to be enough?”

He comes to a stop without turning to look at Eames. “No,” Arthur answers quietly. “But we’ve already put too many hours into this, we can’t just—”

“You can always walk away. This entire job was a crap shoot, anyway.” Eames leans closer, shoulder just barely pressed to Arthur’s. “Flanigan’s mind will be like Fort Knox. There’s no real win here, nothing to be gained, and honestly, I think our employers know this better than we do.”

“If I can just—”

“No.” Eames touches the back of his hand briefly, eyes bright and serious. “Go get some rest, Arthur. When you come back in the morning, we’re going to sit Cobb down and discuss the futility of breaking into a top-level spy’s subconscious before there’s another chance for a bloody firing squad to render you into a piece of swiss cheese. All right?”

Arthur doesn’t answer. He ducks his head and pulls away, leaves Eames standing alone by the warehouse door.

He goes straight to his hotel room and tries to track down his source in Sydney. But the number is disconnected, and the encrypted email he sends gets returned within ten minutes. The migraine still claws faintly at his temples, a reminder of shots fired.

The PASIV is already out on the bed as he crumples gracefully onto the covers. Without removing his shoes or tie, Arthur slides the IV into his wrist and turns his face into the pillow, humming softly as he goes under.

He’s in his living room, or something very close to it. The couch is a deeper shade of brown suede than it is in reality, but everything else is mostly the same. The wood flooring is cold beneath his bare feet.

“Darling, you’ve missed the opening credits.” Tucked into the corner of the couch is Eames, wearing a pairing of blue plaid flannel pajama pants and what looks like Arthur’s ancient Strokes t-shirt, judging from the way it pulls too tightly across his chest. His feet are propped on Arthur’s coffee table, a bottle of beer in one hand and a DVD remote in the other. He’s watching _Mission: Impossible_.

Arthur hates this movie. “I hate this movie,” he says, but he’s already taking heavy, tired steps toward the couch, and the next thing he knows, he’s collapsing onto the cushions and dropping his head into Eames’ lap.

He hears Eames laugh, soft and affectionate. “I know, love, but I couldn’t help it.” Fingers drag gently through Arthur’s hair, and within seconds, Tom Cruise’s voice fades into nothing and Arthur is asleep, cheek pressed against Eames’ thigh.

When the timer ends, Arthur frowns sleepily at the feel of seven hundred thread count under his cheek instead of flannel.

 

_**Chicago** _

Dom is nearly run over by a black Hummer. In real life.

Needless to say, their previous job was not quite to their employer’s specifications, and several rounds of ammunition, a warehouse explosion, and two destroyed rental cars later, they get the message loud and clear. Dom makes a joke about needing to work on his cardio. Ariadne slaps him.

Eames bleeds steadily from a bullet hole in his arm, but he breathlessly assures Arthur as he leans against the alley wall that it “went clean through, love, you’ll still have me for another day, I’m afraid.”

That night, Arthur’s subconscious puts him back on his leather couch, only this time Eames is waiting with the faded quilt Arthur’s grandma gave him years ago and a whispered, “Come along, then,” before he wraps Arthur up in his arms, spooning against his back.

 

_**Barcelona** _

Eames’ wound is worse than they thought, which puts him out of commission for a somewhat low-key job infiltrating a diplomat’s wife’s mind for the whereabouts of her lover. They need a forger to play the wife’s best friend, and Eames says he knows a guy.

The guy’s name is Taylor. He’s American (“born in south Florida, but I grew up in Jersey”), tall, dark-haired, with freakishly blue eyes and a smile that makes him look all of fifteen. He does a trial run with Arthur and Dom, and while he doesn’t have Eames’ finesse, he’s got every bit of Eames’ charm.

Then again, that might have something to do with how he and Eames are apparently ex-lovers.

“Never thought I’d work another job with him,” Taylor says laughingly. “He’s irritating as hell sometimes, and cocky as shit.” He pauses, giving Arthur a smirk. “But he’s also fucking fantastic in the sack, y’know?”

“No, I don’t,” Arthur replies in a bored tone as he dumps the rest of the wife’s file into Taylor’s lap. “You’ve got some reading to do.”

He fucking hates Taylor a lot.

Eames calls him that evening while Arthur’s combing for information on the best friend and her hobbies. It’s two in the morning and his eyes feel as though they're about to roll out of his head from the lack of anything keeping them there.

“So, how’s my darling Taylor doing?”

Something ugly clenches in Arthur’s stomach. “Passable. He’s only slightly less annoying than you.”

“I’m sure he’d be over the moon to hear you say that. You know I only refer the best.”

“He’s your ex,” Arthur hears himself say.

“Precisely.” The grin in Eames’ voice is nearly palpable.

“In the future, I’d rather not work with anyone who’s seen you naked.”

“Yusuf has seen me naked on several occasions, and there was that unfortunate incident in Mexico City with Ariadne—”

“I _meant_ romantically. Sexually.” A flash of heat spreads across his cheeks.

“If I didn’t know you better, pet, I’d say you were suffering from an acute case of the green-eyed monster.”

“You did not just say that to me.”

“Well, my connection could be shoddy, I admit, but you _do_ raise the question as to why it hardly matters if I’ve shagged your current forger or not. He’s doing a rather spot-on rendition of Carlita, yes?”

Arthur huffs, laying back against the hotel bed, hand cupped over his eyes. “I suppose so. Dom’s happy with it.”

“Then it’s hardly an issue at all. Unless, of course, you’re jealous, which if that’s the case then I’m _flattered_ , truly—”

“Good night, Mr. Eames.” Arthur hangs up, tosses his phone on the nightstand, and turns onto his side as he closes his eyes. He might as well get some sleep.

But after a half hour of restless fidgeting, he’s slipping an IV into his wrist, setting the timer for two minutes. That’s all he needs.

He just wants his own bed, his own apartment, and he’s pissed for all of a minute when he finds Eames asleep on top of the comforter in the king-size bed in his bedroom back home. There’s book open on his chest— _Watership Down_ , the cover reads—and he’s wearing the same blue plaid pj pants.

“Goddamn it,” Arthur breathes as he strips off his shirt, his jeans, and crawls almost helplessly into bed beside him, nestles his face against the warm, bare skin of Eames’ arm. Eames makes a quiet groan and settles deeper against the pillows, and slowly their legs tangle together. He smells like autumn, Arthur thinks, the hazy contentment of sleep slipping over him like a well-worn quilt.

“Good night, love,” Eames murmurs, a low, careful rumble. His knuckles pass over Arthur’s cheek, and Arthur leans into the touch.

He wakes up thirty minutes later nuzzling into the hotel comforter like a cat.

 

_**Edinburgh** _

They’re stranded in a medieval cottage that reeks of mold.

“Where did you meet this girl again?” Arthur asks Ariadne as they dump their gear in two painfully tiny rooms.

“We were roommates for a semester back in Paris. Her parents gave her this place as a summer home, isn’t it fantastic? It was originally built as a stable during Elizabeth I’s reign, I _adore_ it.”

Arthur appreciates medieval architecture as much as the next guy, but this place is a _shack_. He’s suddenly picturing all sorts of plague-infested rodents crawling the walls.

If it weren’t for the sudden need to lay low for a few days before heading to London to complete a job, Arthur would be at the Hilton ordering enough room service to make himself sick. But Dom got wind of a Cobol informant on his tail (and Arthur’s as well), hence the sudden exodus from their warehouse stationed in the city to the moldy, damp moors. Ariadne had insisted she knew the perfect place, that no one would begin to know where to find them and the team could stick together until they headed back to London.

Now they’re stuck with two minuscule rooms and one bathroom. Yusuf takes one look at the accommodations and immediately claims the downstairs sofa.

Which now leaves Dom and Ariadne sharing a bed (“I’m _tiny_ , I don’t take up any room,” Ariadne had said when Dom got a little pink), and then, of course, Arthur with Eames.

Of course.

“Don’t hog the sheets this time,” grumbles Arthur as he toes his shoes off, setting them carefully in the corner by the (also tiny) dresser.

Eames pauses, gives Arthur a long, odd look, and it takes Arthur a full thirty seconds to realize what he just said.

“That is—”

“I’m sorry, have we shared a bed without my knowledge? If so, I’m rather disappointed, to say the least.” He grins crookedly at Arthur, but his eyes are curious, contemplative.

“No, I meant don’t hog the sheets, period. I can tell you’re the type.”

His grin turns positively shit-eating. “Oh, am I? Do tell.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and gives a very convincing put-upon sigh while he blushes furiously. “Can we not, please? I’m beat, and this place is going to give us all tuberculosis. We should sleep while we’re all still healthy.” He punctuates his sentence by yanking off his sweater a bit too forcefully, turning his back to ignore Eames’ stupid leering grin.

“Happy to know you’ve taken an interest in my general well-being, love,” he hears Eames drawl, and after that they undress in silence. By the time Arthur is down to his undershirt and boxers, Eames is already in bed, shirtless and curled on his side facing away from Arthur, one arm tucked under his cheek. For some reason he looks smaller against the sheets, even though the broad line of his shoulders is still prominent. His hair is already a bit mussed by his pillow, and Arthur is struck by the realization that Eames doesn’t look small so much as _young_ ; he’s not used to seeing this hulking body in such a loose, vulnerable state.

“Are you going to actually come to bed, or simply stare at my back all night?” The words are mumbled into the pillow, slightly amused and perhaps even a little affectionate. Arthur swallows and does not acknowledge the warm pull in his chest at _come to bed_.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says without any bite at all, pulling back the blankets. He braces himself for a long, sleepless night, but the sheets are already warm from Eames’ body heat, and that, somehow, makes all the tension in Arthur’s muscles instantly bleed away. He stretches for a moment, breathing slowly, and as his eyes close he catches a whiff of something musky, like cologne mixed with the woodsy hint of a bonfire’s smoke.

 _Smells like autumn_ , Arthur thinks hazily, and gradually drifts off to sleep.

He dreams he’s in his apartment once more, only this time he’s not on a timer. This time his subconscious is running free, which is why the details are more fluid, more tinged in the surreal. The walls of his bedroom are shimmery like glass reflecting water, and the lights are dim, far away like stars, but Arthur can see just fine.

And, like always, Eames is sprawled across the bed, only this time his smile is different. He sits up slowly as Arthur approaches and whispers, “You’re late.”

“No, I’m not,” Arthur whispers back, although he has no idea why they are whispering in the first place. He also doesn’t know how he’s suddenly lost the majority of his clothes, save his boxers.

Eames clucks his tongue, and then his smile becomes _devastating_ , all teeth and slick lips and bright eyes. He holds his hand out to Arthur, says, “Fine, you’re not,” and Arthur nearly stumbles over his feet to get to the bed, taking Eames’ hand as he falls onto him, into him, skin to skin and their mouths a slow, wet slide and their legs a tangled puzzle against the sheets. Eames threads their fingers together, gasps Arthur’s name into his mouth as their hips connect, and Arthur groans _yes_ to a question that hasn’t even been asked. He’s so hard, painfully, wonderfully hard, and he could come so easily from this, from the heat of Eames melting beneath him, from the desperate, filthy sounds trapped in Eames’ throat, from the way Eames sinks his teeth into the side of Arthur’s neck and hisses, _”Please.”_

He’s so close, so, _so_ close, and once it’s over he’s going to do it all over again with his cock buried inside Eames and make him scream his name, or God’s name, or both, he doesn’t care, oh _fuck_ —

“Darling?”

Arthur bites the inside of his lip, shuddering all the way to his toes. “Y-yeah?” He’s not sure why Eames suddenly sounds so...tentative.

“I, um. I think you should wake up now.”

His eyes fly open to find himself plastered against Eames’ back, mouth open and panting against his shoulder. This would be embarrassing in and of itself if it weren’t for the fact that Arthur is also rocking his hips into Eames’ ass, his erection soaking through the front of his boxers.

Arthur is a professional. He’s dealt with life and death situations on a daily basis. He can, for all intents and purposes, handle this like an adult.

Which is to say he promptly yells, _"Shit,"_ and falls out of bed in his attempt to get as far away from Eames as humanly possible, taking the rest of the sheets with him.

For one long, humiliating moment, Arthur lays on the cold, mold-smelling floor, hard-on throbbing and his body trapped, burrito-style, in the blankets, trying desperately to think of something succinct and blase to say. But nothing comes to mind other than slinking away and maybe beating off in the stupidly small bathroom downstairs.

When he finally opens his eyes, Eames is peering over the edge of the bed, eyebrows raised, the corner of his bottom lip caught between his teeth. His hair sticks up flat on one side, and fuck, Arthur can still taste him in his mouth.

“Dearest,” Eames says slowly, as if speaking to a skittish animal. “Would you mind telling me what just happened?”

“I would, yes,” Arthur replies automatically. He doesn’t move, just stares up at the ceiling and tries to think of something witty, something Eames-ish to respond with.

Meanwhile, Eames clears his throat. “Have you...have you been dreaming about sleeping with me?”

Yes, but not in a dirty way, Arthur thinks. That is, until tonight. “That’s none of your business.”

“It is, actually, when I wake up to you dry humping me in the middle of the night.” He smiles, but it’s as tentative as his tone. “I’m not complaining, mind you, but you could have at least given me some forewarning.”

Very slowly, Arthur covers both hands over his face. “All right, fine. I’m sorry I—I humped you in your sleep. These beds are too fucking tiny, anyway, it’s not like there’s ample room for any—”

“But before, when you told me not to steal the sheets ‘this time’—what time were you referring to?”

“I told you, I was tired, it didn’t mean—”

In one fluid movement, Eames slides off the bed and straddles Arthur’s sheet-trapped body. Arthur goes absolutely still, although his dick has other ideas. He grits his teeth, holds his breath as Eames looms over him.

“Tell me what you dream about,” he whispers, voice achingly familiar.

Arthur holds his breath. “It’s nothing.”

Eames pushes his hips carefully against Arthur’s, smiling when Arthur gasps and shudders. “That doesn’t feel like nothing, love.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of morning wood? Jesus.”

“It’s barely midnight.”

“I’m _not_ having this conversation with you, Eames, so just—”

“You were moaning my name, by the way. Among other things.”

Arthur swallows and closes his eyes. “I’m not—”

“You were whispering all the things you wanted to do to me, to fuck me until I screamed your name, to come inside me and lick me clean, to—”

“ _Eames_.” His voice cracks slightly, but Arthur is past caring. He’s only human. “I can’t, I—”

Something soft skims over his cheek, like the Eames is nuzzling him with the tip of his nose. “Can’t what?”

“I just, I want—”

“I would let you, you know. I’d let you do anything you like, or even just let you whisper it in my ear. Either way, I’m yours if you want me. I’ve been yours for a while now, actually.”

Arthur’s resolve crumbles like sand in high tide. It doesn’t help that Eames is scattering gentle, feather-light kisses across the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe you’re confessing all this to me while I’m wrapped up like a fucking mummy. Not to mention I think I bruised my tailbone.”

Eames nips Arthur’s bottom lip. “Are you saying you’ve imagined something more alluring?”

“Well...yeah.” He opens his mouth slightly, lets Eames lick past teeth, lets their tongues slide slow and easy against each other as he listens to the gradual quickening of their breaths. He can feel Eames’ weight sinking into him, and Arthur struggles to free his arms so he touch all that _skin_ that’s been taunting his dreams for weeks now.

In the end, Eames unwraps him with careful precision, until Arthur is free and shivering with want and pawing to get Eames closer, _closer_. They come with the blankets shoved around their ankles and the sheets still knotted around Arthur’s knees, Arthur’s hand buried in Eames’ hair and Eames growling Arthur’s name far too loudly for Dom and Ariadne not to hear every damn syllable.

Arthur is wrecked and panting as Eames buries his face in Arthur’s neck. “I want you to show me,” he gasps.

Arthur traces the thick, dark lines of Eames’ tattoo with his thumb. He feels stupid with contentment. “Show you what?”

“The dreams you have. Were having. Will have. I want to see every one.”

He almost laughs at the irony. Having the real Eames asleep in his bed makes dreaming a moot point, but Arthur’s willing to humor him. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that. Now, let’s get into bed for real and maybe find clean sheets.”

From the other side of the bedroom wall, a loud, angry pounding starts, followed by, “For fuck’s sake, you guys, we’re _sleeping_ over here, _god_.”

Arthur winces. “She’ll be unbearable in the morning.”

Eames beams as he gets his feet, holding a hand out to Arthur. “She’ll get over it. She’s sharing a bed with Cobb, after all.”

Arthur looks at Eames’ outstretched hand, feeling a rather embarrassingly sappy grin spread across his face. “Good point.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to hackthis and wordsalone for the beta job.


End file.
